The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  Alex’s eyes widened just slightly.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. It would be bad for morale to do anything else.” Rebecca beamed at him confidently. “I’m sure there is a crack squad of Auditors hunting for you, even as we speak.”

  ***

  “Eerie?” Vivik was breathless as they crested the hill; the view from the top provided an excellent vantage to observe the endless procession of trees in front of them, identical to all the other trees they had passed already. “I almost hate to ask, but do you know where we are?”

  Eerie paused her clumsy and enthusiastic descent to glance at him, Derrida imitating her actions.

  “Right now? I think these are the woods,” she assured him guilelessly. “What about you?”

  Two.

  Anastasia Martynova stood in front of the mirror and examined herself critically, clad only in black silk underwear approximately as expensive as a midrange sedan. Her lady’s maid, Mai Quan, watched from the corner of the room while Anastasia ran her hands across her chest and hips, turning this way and that to adjust her view of her reflection. These inspections were a monthly ritual and a closely held secret between Anastasia and Mai. They had been conducted in private for nearly two years, the measurements carefully noted in a diary that Anastasia kept locked in her desk, absent any form of context that might help an unwitting discoverer determine to what the numbers referred.

  Mai loved her job, apart from this one task. She was equipped to deal with any eventuality, excepting only Anastasia’s disappointment.

  Mai waited for Anastasia’s face to fall ever so slightly. The moment stretched out, Anastasia standing frozen in front of the mirror, staring down at herself instead of at her reflection. Mai grew concerned.

  “Mai – the tape measure. Quickly!”

  Mai hurried over and wrapped the tape around her mistress, simultaneously reinforcing the mental shields built to prevent telepathic or empathic eavesdropping.

  She knew the diameter of Anastasia’s chest the way she knew the dimensions of the room she had lived in for the last four years. Despite her mistress’s excitement – and this was not the first time she had found some sort of encouragement – Mai knew that nothing would have changed.

  She pulled the tape tight and read the number, and then very nearly dropped the tape measure. She checked the measurement several times before she trusted it enough to say it aloud.

  “Two point eight,” Mai breathed softly, speaking the numbers with reverence. “Nearly two point nine.”

  The color drained from Anastasia’s face, and her hands went automatically to her chest. Both women were silent as Anastasia leaned close to the mirror, a slight tremble running through her body.

  “Milady,” Mai said carefully. “You have waited such a long time.”

  Anastasia turned to examine her profile in the mirror.

  “It is a rather unexpected development.” Anastasia’s tone betrayed a controlled giddiness.

  At a wave of her Mistress’s hand, Mai hurried over with an argent shift. Anastasia raised her arms, and Mai tugged the garment gently over her head, careful not to disturb her meticulously styled hair, teased into curls by virtue of effort and patience. Anastasia smoothed the shift across her chest and smiled unreservedly at the results.

  “At the very least,” Anastasia said brightly, “I shall have to inform my dressmakers.”

  ***

  Lord North accepted the driver his caddie offered and gave it a few experimental swings. He adjusted his white calfskin gloves and green-brimmed visor, and then studied the green in the distance, the Hanalei Bay sparkling at the edge of the course. He took a practiced stance, immaculate white shoes planted firmly on the verdant grass surrounding the tee. He stopped short, reset, and then drove the ball.

  Three of the four men watched the ball sail through the air. The fourth did not bother, as he already knew that it would roll to a stop short of the green.

  “Not bad.” Coming from Gaul Thule, it sounded like an admission. “Your game has improved, Henry.”

  North returned the driver to his caddie.

  “I’d hope so. I was still at the Academy the last time we played.”

  The Lords followed a decayed granite path through the course, the caddies maintaining a respectful distance. At an even more respectful distance, two security details lingered and eyed each other, specially tailored suits heavy in the humid air of Kauai.

  “I am not at my best, dealing with social affairs.”

  “I have noticed that.”

  Gaul adjusted his glasses, grimacing at the blue sky, which was decorated with slight wisps of marshmallow cloud.

  “The last time we spoke personally…”

  “…you threatened me with an Inquiry for rescuing Mitsuru Aoki and Alexander Warner, as I recall. It was easier to compel cooperation as the Director, I would imagine.”

  “Yes.” Gaul shook his head. “Much easier.”

  “Oh, do continue, Gaul – and stop looking so aggrieved. The day is beautiful, you have a stroke on me already, and I mean to at least hear you out.”

  Gaul looked away shortly, and then nodded.

  “You are right, of course.”

  Lord North turned his attention briefly to the sea, as their path brought them to a hill overlooking a deserted white sand beach, not so much private as inaccessible from anywhere except the far end of the course.

  “Your adopted father and mine were allies,” Gaul began. “Friends, as I recall.”

  “Yes. Close friends.”

  “Our own careers have been less amicable.”

  “Quite so.”

  “I would like to rectify that.”

  Lord North looked amused.

  “Does it not seem a bit late in the game? I would have thought you to be passed the age where one worried over such trivial matters, Gaul.”

  “You have it all wrong,” Gaul explained, with a mournful expression. “Time has taught me just the opposite. In my previous capacity as Director, I have attended the funerals of many friendless men.”

  “Along with those of any number of popular men, I would imagine.” Lord North took a cigar from the breast pocket of his pin-striped shirt, and then placed it between his exceedingly regular teeth. “Set aside your misplaced sentimentality. You did not remember it when the tables were turned.”

  “Fair enough.” Gaul’s face screwed up as if he had bit into a lemon. “I will be blunt.”

  “You were rarely otherwise,” North said, with passing fondness. “Looks like I’m away, then, eh?”

  Gaul nodded. His ball was a few centimeters on to the lighter grass of the green. The caddy hurried over to mark the spot and collect his ball, while North’s caddy handed him a wedge. Gaul watched with evident impatience while North prepared. Gaul envied the nonchalant grace of North’s form, even with a cigar clamped in his mouth.

  The ball landed with a satisfying thud on the green, rolled directly toward the center, and then settled into the hole with a ceramic rattle. North grinned and spun his club, while the caddies offered polite praise. Gaul smiled thinly and waited.

  The caddy hurried about his business. Gaul snatched a putter from his hands, ignoring the surprised look on the boy’s freckled face.

  “May I continue?”

  “By all means.”

  Gaul took a practice swing, trying to conceal his agitation. This meeting was the kind of thing he preferred to delegate.

  “My entire career, I have operated from a singular point of view; that is, Central would inevitably face a specific existential threat, and without proper intervention, this threat would actualize.” He took a few steps back, and changed his grip on the club. “I have known this threat since my Activation, the way a religious man knows God. I have dedicated the whole of my life to preparing for this threat.”

  “Which you would be in a better position to meet as the Director of Central,” North pointed out. “What happened to your vaunted preco
gnition there?”

  “Nothing at all.” Gaul adjusted his glasses. “I maintained that role for as long as was possible. I am exactly where I need to be at present, Henry.”

  “Well, that is reassuring. Do let me know how the whole nasty affair works out, then, won’t you?”

  “You underestimate the scope and nature of the calamity,” Gaul said heatedly. “The coming wave will drown us all.”

  They studied each other while their caddies circled nervously, just out of earshot, security details making more distant circuits.

  “Won’t that be terrible?” North extracted the cigar from his mouth and examined the moist end. “I sense a sales pitch coming, Gaul. I have to warn you that I am very close to regretting accepting your invitation.”

  “Regret on your part is inevitable.” Gaul gave the club another swing, and then frowned at it. “You are, for all intents and purposes, the present leader of the Hegemony.”

  “The greater part of it, in any case,” North agreed, amused. “A controlling interest in an unruly mob, shall we say?”

  “I need it, Henry.” Gaul’s voice was wooden, his tone tempered by downloaded mathematics. “The Hegemony, or as much of it as can be gathered in a short time.”

  Lord North felt slightly unsteadied by the brazenness of it all. The wind carried a tropical bouquet, and the course beneath his feet and the sea beside it were like cartoon renderings, the colors ridiculously vibrant and rich.

  “Is that so?” North chewed his cigar thoughtfully. “Whatever for?”

  “To fight a war,” Gaul explained sadly. “The worst our world has ever seen.”

  “Aha.” North looked out on the sea and tried to emulate its assured indifference. “I’ll pass, thanks all the same.”

  “Henry, listen…”

  “You’ve had your war, Gaul.” Lord North smiled indulgently. “You sat in your office at the Academy and saw into the future and plotted out designs to win the war with the Witches and the Anathema; to put an end to the conflicts between the cartels. You failed, Gaul. At every turn, your schemes did more damage than good.”

  “You can’t see the whole picture, Henry.”

  “The Anathema invaded Central.” Lord North shrugged. “They attacked the Academy and killed students. They attacked the Far Shores and stole a World Tree they can use to go anywhere they want. How much more war do you need, Gaul? How many more failures until you see that you are a poor general, foreknowledge be damned?”

  “You are wrong. Each of the events you mentioned, tragedies though they may be, was the best of all possible outcomes. You would not want to live in one of the futures that I have prevented,” Gaul said mildly, suddenly calm and focused. “The game is not lost, Henry. I’m playing a longer game than any you can imagine. Accompany me, for our fathers’ sakes. Be beside me when I upset everything.”

  “What do you…?”

  “I mean to take all of it, Henry. We’ll run the table. We will unify the Hegemony, and then deal with the Black Sun. Consolidation will slow us at that point, obviously, but once their surviving troops are integrated among our own, we move on…”

  “To the Anathema?” Lord North paled in the bright Hawaiian sun. “Do you mean to invade the Outer Dark, Gaul?”

  “As a beginning,” Gaul said, with an assured nod. “The threat, however, is larger than the Anathema. I would deal with the tyranny of the Church of Sleep as well.”

  “It is ill-advised to even speak of such things,” North said slowly. “Have you gone mad, losing the Directorship? In the name of the friendship your adoptive father showed mine, I feel obligated to assist you in finding help.”

  “I am perfectly sane,” Gaul insisted. He stepped to the ball, and swung with reckless disregard, his eyes locked on Lord North. The ball went sailing, a hundred meters past the hole and more. “As I said earlier – I am simply playing a much longer game.”

  Lord North stood in astounded silence, the damp cigar dangling from his fingers. The smile slowly returned to his face.

  “You do realize you’ve lost a stroke?”

  Gaul’s face reddened.

  “That was hardly the point I was…”

  “I do understand, but the loss of a stroke in a display of pith is a terrible means of persuasion – not to mention a striking metaphor for your own failures of vision. I believe you’ve lost track of the game, former Director.”

  Gaul studied him warily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your display cost you the lead.” North’s tone was jubilant. “We are tied, Gaul. For the very first time in the game, we find ourselves on equal footing.”

  Gaul sighed, and the caddies paced in nervous agitation.

  “You mean to oppose me,” Gaul concluded, dropping his club on the green. “You mean to fight. I will warn you once, Henry – do not do this. We may yet both live to regret it.”

  “Shall we?” North tossed his cigar aside and offered his hand. “I think not. I look forward to whatever future comes.”

  “Ignorance is bliss, Henry.”

  Gaul took his hand. They shook and then walked away in separate directions, security details hurrying after them, leaving the caddies to puzzle over the remains of their game.

  ***

  “You have made this situation tremendously difficult for me.”

  Vladimir nodded, milky eyes open hardly more than slits between drooping eyelids. Time in the room was punctuated by the chirps produced by a variety of arcane machinery that was attached to the seemingly old man, and a muted television broadcasting golf from Atlanta provided much of the light.

  “Yes.” Vladimir’s voice was so thin that Rebecca almost put his oxygen mask back on. “For that, at least, I am sorry.”

  “From my perspective, that pretty much removes any obligation on my part to go easy on you, Vlad.” Rebecca paused to give him a questioning look, and received a short nod and what she liked to think was an expression of regret on his creased and worn face. “This is going to be ugly. I’m not sorry, okay? I’m just not. This is a situation that you created.”

  “I know, Becca. I don’t need you to remind me of it.”

  The Director did not ask him how he was doing. Since Alistair had taken a metal pipe to Vladimir’s skull during the Anathema incursion at the Far Shores, the prematurely aged man had not left the confines of the infirmary, unable to even make it out of bed. Rebecca received daily updates from his physicians, and developments were rarely encouraging.

  “I think you do, Vlad.”

  Rebecca sighed, squeezed his brittle hand gently, and then dug through the bag resting against the metal frame of Vladimir’s hospital bed. She took out a small rectangular box, lined with copper-toned paper, and marked with a gilded logo. Rebecca set the box on the plastic tray beside Vladimir’s shrunken arm. His eyes widened, and then he launched into a brutal coughing fit. Rebecca averted her eyes until it was over, suppressing an urge to hit the call button, reminding herself that this was part of her job.

  “Are you taking me seriously now?”

  Vladimir nodded, eyes fixed on the decorative box.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  Rebecca folded her arms and put her feet on the adjoining plastic chair, careful not to scuff the brand new, all-white trainers that she had bought on impulse online and already regretted. They were too expensive not to wear, but when she did so, Rebecca was tormented by the fear of smudging the snow-colored leather. She could not remember buying a pair of shoes in which she had taken less satisfaction.

  “It is. Just got back from the city.”

  Vladimir shook his head, clearing his throat several times before he managed to speak.

  “You are a cruel woman, Becca.”

  “Not really,” Rebecca corrected, untying the ribbon that held the box shut. “I’m just the Director, these days, and there are certain responsibilities that go with the title.”

  It was hard to tell, but that might have earned a chuckle
from Vladimir – or he was simply having more trouble than usual breathing. It seemed impolite – and thus far, unnecessary – to sneak a look at his thoughts, but Rebecca kept close tabs on his emotional state, ready to adjust as required.

  It was not something she felt particularly good about, but feeling good was not a big part of the experience of being Director, at least as far as she could tell.

  “You wouldn’t do this to an old man.”

  Rebecca used her bitten fingernails to peel away the plastic that sealed the box. She had painted them reddish-purple just a few days before, but then ruined the paint by chipping away at it.

  “I might. But you aren’t an old man, Vlad. You’re just a feeb.”

  Vladimir sucked in air and glared. Sweat collected in the creases along his forehead.

  “Surely my doctors would never allow you to…”

  “I’m the Director, Vlad. What won’t they allow me to do?”

  Rebecca took the lid off the paper box. Vlad jerked his head away, facing the room’s one small window defiantly. His fingers trembled against the plastic of the tray position beside his bed.

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know,” Vladimir said, with difficulty. “There is no need for all this.”

  Rebecca shook her head slowly, nudging the box along the tray until one corner was touching his shrunken, blue-veined hand.

  “Sorry, Vlad.” She did not sound sorry at all. “This is the way it’s gotta be.”

  “Come, now, Rebecca,” Vlad pleaded, his eyes creeping to the box beside his hand, examining its contents with obvious reticence. “We have been friends for a long time. You should be able to trust me by now!”

  “I should,” Rebecca agreed. “You’re the one that brought us to this, Vlad. We both know this needs to happen. I can’t just trust you – I have to know.” Rebecca crossed her arms and gave him a stern look. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Try and be a man about it.”